


Burn that Bridge

by StellaCartography



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Last breath, M/M, New Year's Eve, ain't no coming back from a love like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellaCartography/pseuds/StellaCartography
Summary: Post-naw-pocalypse these two ridiculous individuals get it together and make out on New Year's Eve. Kissing, fluff, minor smut.Title comes from Donovan Woods' song of the same name.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 95





	Burn that Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sitting on a few WIPs in this fandom and I feel like if I don't publish SOMETHING I'll never finish anything so, HERE! Unbetaed. We die like Klingon Warriors.  
> Straddles the line between an M and E rating, I think, but we're playing it safe here, folks.

Sharing champagne in the bookshop on New Year's Eve is a change of pace from Crowley's usual festive prowling. Seeking out sinners to tempt in clubs and bars all through the holiday season usually kept him busy. Humans were almost too easy to tempt at this time of year. Emotions were high, loneliness was rampant - ironic in the face of all this  _ togetherness  _ \- and looming family commitments had so many people positively ripe for the suggestions Crowley planted in their minds. 

Now, though, he is retired. He is a free agent. Untethered. He is feeling a bit at loose ends but is holding up well as long as he stays near Aziraphale. They had spent most days, most hours in one another's company since Adam saved the world. Crowley feels like a satellite in a decaying orbit, happy and terrified to be circling faster, closer to Aziraphale's celestial body. Sentiments had been expressed, somewhat.  _ I care for you. I want to continue to do so. I miss you.  _ Tiny exploratory touches were permitted, fingers to hands, arms, shoulders. It was never quite enough for Crowley but it was too much at the same time. He is falling again. Burning up on descent again. This time it truly is a swan dive not a saunter. This time he'd happily crack open his chest and launch his blackened heart like a torpedo into Aziraphale's gravity well. 

_ What are you doing New Year's   
_ _ New Year's Eve _

They are listening to the countdown on the radio, inane commentary interspersed with schmaltzy covers of festive songs. Crowley is in the delicate process of convincing Aziraphale that a television would enhance the backroom and give Crowley something to enjoy while the angel runs his shop. He refuses to push too hard on this or anything else. Slow and steady is always best where Aziraphale was concerned. For now, the radio plays in proper full stereo, the sound quality miraculously good from the old shortwave Aziraphale had pulled from a shelf. 

They are sitting close together, blurred edges and soft leather coalescing with their mutually sozzled state. Aziraphale's hand is resting on Crowley's knee, when the angel makes a shocking proposition. 

"Would you like to try? Kissing, that is. With me?" 

Crowley feels the wine burn its way through his soft palate and transubstantiates it to water as it exits his nose. After a moment of sputtering and coughing he gasps out, "What brought this on, angel?" 

"I - Well, I mean it's - It's been a while for me. Haven't kissed anyone in over a century." Aziraphale looks like he regrets saying it. He's flushed and fidgeting more than before. 

"Oh." Crowley isn't really surprised. Can't be when he'd seen the angel perform incredibly affectionate miracles and temptations over the centuries. Still, it needles him a little. "Miss it, do you?" 

Aziraphale takes his hand back from Crowley's knee to twine his fingers in his own lap. "I just - I'm a little behind the times, I know. A bit out of practice. And it’s New Year’s Eve. I thought maybe it's time I… Catch up." 

Crowley nearly loses another mouthful of wine. He puts his glass down. "With the wonderful innovations in the field of kissing?" Crowley wields snark like a weapon. He will go to his ultimate destruction with a wry smile and a biting remark. He does not know how to face adversity otherwise. 

"Possibly. But mostly…" Aziraphale is weirdly calm. Not placid as he so often appears, but still like he is holding himself together, trying not to shake apart. "I'd like to catch up with you, Crowley. I know I go too slow but now-" 

"Aziraphale!" Crowley is horrified. "Come on. It's - It's not a race. It never has been." This is not the way it should go. Crowley wants Aziraphale to want this, to feel the joy in it, to relish it like a meal at the Ritz. He doesn’t want Aziraphale falling into his arms under the weight of obligation. 

"Now there's nothing stopping us, is there?" Aziraphale doesn't appear to expect an answer to this one. And then, hesitantly, "I would like to leave the starting block." 

Crowley short-circuits. When he speaks he is so much louder than he intends to be. "Fuck's sake, angel. A sports metaphor? You really are going native." That isn't the point. Crowley knows it. 

Aziraphale knows too. He can see they're both scrabbling, desperate. It's too easy to fall back into their familiar patterns, dance around the truth of what they are, circle one another just outside the realm of touch. Who they could be looms like a cliffside. One of them must be brave. 

"Crowley. Do shut up," Aziraphale murmurs, sliding Crowley’s designer eyewear from his face. 

The angel puts his hand back on Crowley's knee, kisses him, and threads his fingers through Crowley's red hair. Everything is soft and just the way Aziraphale wants. Crowley isn't breathing and moves glacially, letting his soft lips flow over Aziraphale's, melting into his mouth, and scraping his teeth along the angel's bottom lip. Crowley will not rush this. He wants to make this last for days. He doesn’t want this to end. He wants to deposit reminders of this first kiss on Aziraphale - souvenirs of the trembling, quaking need this is inducing - so he’ll always crave another.

Aziraphale appears to have other ideas. He surges forth like a river breaking its banks, capturing Crowley's head with eager fingers that erode his control, plunging deep with a hungry mouth and humming his pleasure against Crowley's lips. He tastes Crowley, licks into his mouth like the sensualist he is and Crowley softens under the onslaught. Aziraphale is the force of rising floodwaters, the certainty of tides, and the warmth of a summer sunlit pool and he surrounds and overwhelms Crowley, who lets out a desperate moan as the angel pushes him down into the murky depths of the couch cushions. 

If Crowley had a shred of innocence remaining in his soul, Aziraphale is robbing him of it now. The angel moves over him, passion warring with his protective instincts as he grinds with a wanton pelvis and caresses with sweet, soft hands. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, pulling himself away from Crowley’s molten mess of bones and blushing skin. “I do hope I haven’t been presumptuous. Please tell me if I’ve gone too far.” He presses a kiss to Crolwey’s left cheekbone. “Say the word, Crowley, and I’ll stop.” He hovers there, searching Crowley’s lust-slackened features for a sign, any hint of uncertainty, but Crowley just grins dazedly at him. 

They stare at one another for several minutes while Crowley regains control over his mouth. “Angel,” he grinds out. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“But do you want to -” Aziraphale is tracing Crowley’s face as he allows his hips to press down once more, cock straining against the seams as it comes fully into contact with the demon’s warmth.

“Fuck!” Crowley moans. “Everything. Anything. Yes, angel. Please.” He is begging now, wrapping those long limbs around Aziraphale and constricting, pulling him closer. “I want it all.”

They both cry out as one of them makes their clothing vanish. Crowley howls when Aziraphale shifts to prepare him with a ravenous mouth and pleasure-seeking fingers. Aziraphale erupts with desperate little, “Oh, oh, oh!”s and a singular “Good lord, Crowley” as he enters the slick tight heat of him. After an indeterminate amount of time, measured only in thrusts and sighs and kisses, they perform a duet of names and “Oh, love”s and gratitude as they come undone in one another’s arms.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, Aziraphale lounges against the arm of the couch while Crowley creates constellations of marks in his flesh, sucking, biting and kissing until Aziraphale giggles from overstimulation. 

“I think we may have missed the countdown, my dear,” Aziraphale slurs as Crowley nibbles up the cords of the angel’s neck. 

“‘S’all right, angel,” Crowley says between bites. “We can ring in the New Year with the Americas in a few hours.” 

“I suppose.” Aziraphale wiggles happily in response to Crowley’s attentions. “I wonder if that has quite the same - oh yes, right there - effect as a kiss at midnight.”

Crowley stops suddenly and frowns at Aziraphale. “Well, I think the only way to make sure we take full advantage of all the good New Year magic is for me to kiss you.” He plants a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “Every hour,” he says, kissing Aziraphale’s nose. “On the hour.” Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s flushed cheeks. “For the remainder of the evening.” Crowley’s lips meet Aziraphale’s once more and keep their promise.

“Happy New Year, Angel.”


End file.
